


Sleep for the Wicked

by May



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dream Bubble, Forced Slime Bath, Mind Control, Sopor Slime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-24 01:12:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/May/pseuds/May
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The young bard all slips his motherfucking way through the bubble, both the ways you up and carved out and then through the memory holes. He ain’t lacking in pan holes, that’s all for motherfucking sure, so you’ve been able to all up and skim round there at your leisure. That’s being of the most importance, since he’s the envoy of English and it’s all being your responsibility to ensure he’s at his permanent best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleep for the Wicked

**Author's Note:**

> See the notes at the end for warnings.

When the messiah is all needing the best what you can give, you ain’t got no motherfucking choice but to give it. The heroes of rage are working for the glory of the dark gods.  
Or rather, you should be.

You’re stuck inside the bubbles, staring on out into the pitch void, splintered beautiful with the broken path of the lord. The diaphanous surface of the bubble dips under the press of a horrorterror getting its unknowable slick limbed curiosity on at the all of you. You would motherfucking go out there and do all the bidding if you could.

The young bard all slips his motherfucking way through the bubble, both the ways you up and carved out and then through the memory holes. He ain’t lacking in pan holes, that’s all for motherfucking sure, so you’ve been able to all up and skim round there at your leisure. That’s being of the most importance, since he’s the envoy of English and it’s all being your responsibility to ensure he’s at his permanent best.

He lopes his way to you, his limbs got a gangliness that not even you have. He goggles at you, and you catch that he’s waxing irritated. You feel the bubbling vexation all surfacing in those pan holes. He is the loud to your quiet, the chaos to your stoic, but there’s still limits to be all abiding by and you are to be keeping him inside those safe.

The bubble begins to shift around you, sweeps onwards from when you started getting your learn on of the dreams that made your home. You can see the undulation of new hive walls and you’ve taken him to a room plastered in his very self. You wonder if he gets his peepers on them good if he can recognise his own self in them. Maybe, maybe not. You don’t know if he has a real knowing of his own face, anyway. That type of thing being, though, that most salient that makes him such a good emissary. It ain’t good to be too knowing of one’s own self if he’s going to be serving the lord.

He’s what’s being his painted face all the way down. It makes him most pure as a guide though you got to be the one to keep him true.

There is a large, warm recuperacoon in the corner, filled with fresh slime. You make the hive all lit like dusk and the bard’s sharp face takes on hollow angles as he gets his lookstubs round the block. You focus your pan into his and dip all into the holes and he’s unsure. There’s a flare-up as he gets his gaze on at the slime. Nothing like a blazing fire but an overbubble, like something that was all keeping itself low and simmering.

You make it motherfucking clear he’s going to sleep and it’s all for his own good. With no moirail in sight he ain’t got no-one but you to help him. He stares at the slime and his pan near splits itself in two. You give a nudge to make it mend but it falls aside like boiled beastflesh, anyway. You push a little harder and his body stops rigid, his hollow-seeming bones loose like a puppet-husk. You can slip right in there and make it so he’s filled out good inside, though.

You know he don’t want to be getting his bardly attire filthy none so you think it motherfucking prudent to be all going to divest him of those motherfucking garments most holy. You get those urges at him, and he stares back at you with eyes wide and desperate. He says at you that you don’t motherfucking understand. You say back at him that you’re more than getting your understand on. You got your know on what he needs. You ask at him whether he wants to sleep, whether the temptation of tension seeping all out from his precious living veins ain’t appealing. He don’t answer and you feel his pan try and take its full motherfucking self off down two paths. You feel him try to turn that question around back at you like you got an answer, but you don’t got none. Desperation builds some, though, and it’s your deal to be making it easy for him and be giving the answer so he don’t got to.

You smooth over his panholes where he’s all getting raw around the edges and feed them balm and he gets his settle on with the desperation all gone from his eyes. With movements rigid he pulls off his hood and his shirt and the codpiece your mage fetched for you from the corner of the bubble. Disrobed, he gets his peepers on you, again, something boils on still but you hold it down motherfucking good. Undressed he’s like he all don’t fit together like when you pull up the dressings on a puppet that’s made just as much for its own clothes. You guess that makes a whole lot of motherfucking sense since your exalted bard parades the motherfucking codpiece like he was supposed to in the first motherfucking place. After rest and ablutions, he’ll be ready, again.

He moves a little more stiff than when you usually use your voodoos. Usually, the limbs shift more easy. Your bard reaches the edge of the recuperacoon and stares in and the dim light all catches at his angles and he’s all crafted of shadows and edges. And you’ll send him back at on paradox space and he’ll all slip into it like he’s motherfucking made to do that. Which he motherfucking was in a way.

He slips easy into the slime, lets the fumes twist all up into his snout, film over his lookstubs. You go on and take off your own clothes and join him. And for a blessed moment he’s all motherfucking splayed out, and his head slumping, and you feel him begin to get his rest on. His pan settles and there’s one little motherfucking place where tension all roils behind black glass, getting fractious at that but you motherfucking keep that down easy. He ain’t even so much as noticed you getting in there, too, so you guess he’s as good as motherfucking gone. That’s all up until a whine starts to croak in his skinny chest and you can feel his irritations start to expand past where you’re holding them safe. He hums awkwardly and swings his hands over the surface, fingers twitching all agitated.

The slime is all beginning to twist and curl all up in your own pan, too, and maybe that’s being why you ain’t able to hold him calm no more. He mutters and all tells at you that he up and wants to move, that his pan is working at trying to jam itself into a hole it don’t fit in none. You bring up your slime covered hand and run it quick along his shoulder some. He’s getting all thrumming deep inside, like his bloodpusher wants to beat itself quicker than it can. You run your paw back and forth and remember that his own motherfucking church said that a culled wriggler needed to get its sleep on even if it thinks it don’t. And you know that he will.

He says it ain’t the same, that he would have known it wasn’t the same. All because he all up and knows know. Void flicks at his pan’s gaze and you reach at him to put him steady. He’s motherfucking frozen still until he lets out a sharp trill and a jagged growl and he’s digging sharp claws in your wrist. It ain’t like you need to feel pain in the bubbles because you can just fade it all out as you wish, but you let it sink in. You let your head go light some and he all starts clawing at your shoulders and your chest and you let your nook give a throb. But he’s all naked and splayed and thrashing and that would be pushing at your duties all insalubrious and wouldn’t help none. So you right yourself and put your hands on his shoulders and concentrate on his pan. It’s hard as he’s still all vexed good, but you push it down, down and he sags over.

You rest your chin between his horns for one motherfucking moment and then push him back, his eyes heavy and his limbs lethargic. You ain’t got the knowing where he goes when he sleeps but it ain’t here.

**Author's Note:**

> Kurloz forces Gamzee into a recooperacoon, which really isn't good for him.


End file.
